had been almost wrecked by running upon a
snag three days before;--there was at least a fortnight's work for the
ship-carpenter of Dead Cypress Point. And Feliu was sleeping as if
nothing unusual had happened--the heavy sleep of a sailor, heedless of
commotions and voices. And his men, Miguel and Mateo, were at the
other end of the cheniere.

With a scream Carmen aroused Feliu. He raised himself upon his elbow,
rubbed his eyes, and asked her, with exasperating calmness, "Que
tienes? que tienes?" (What ails thee?)

--"Oh, Feliu! the sea is coming upon us!" she answered, in the same
tongue. But she screamed out a word inspired by her fear: she did not
cry, "Se nos viene el mar encima!" but "Se nos viene LA ALTURA!"--the
name that conveys the terrible thought of depth swallowed up in
height,--the height of the high sea.

"No lo creo!" muttered Feliu, looking at the floor; then in a quiet,
deep voice he said, pointing to an oar in the corner of the room,
"Echame ese remo."

She gave it to him. Still reclining upon one elbow, Feliu measured the
depth of the water with his thumb nail upon the blade of the oar, and
then bade Carmen light his pipe for him. His calmness reassured her.
For half an hour more, undismayed by the clamoring of the wind or the
calling of the sea, Feliu silently smoked his pipe and watched his oar.
The water rose a little higher, and he made another mark;--then it
climbed a little more, but not so rapidly; and he smiled at Carmen as
he made a third mark. "Como creia!" he exclaimed, "no hay porque
asustarse: el agua baja!" And as Carmen would have continued to pray,
he rebuked her fears, and bade her try to obtain some rest:

"Basta ya de plegarios, querida!--vete y duerme." His tone, though
kindly, was imperative; and Carmen, accustomed to obey him, laid
herself down by his side, and soon, for very weariness, slept.

It was a feverish sleep, nevertheless, shattered at brief intervals by
terrible sounds, sounds magnified by her nervous condition--a sleep
visited by dreams that mingled in a strange way with the impressions of
the storm, and more than once made her heart stop, and start again at
its own stopping. One of these fancies she never could forget--a dream
about little Concha,--Conchita, her firstborn, who now slept far away
in the old churchyard at Barcelona. She had tried to become
resigned,--not to think. But the child would come back night after
night, though the earth lay h